Date: Mon, 29 Jan 2007 00:22:11 -0800 (PST)
From: dogeboy2
Subject: The Rescue, part 1
This is my second submission to Nifty. It's another two-part story. Parts
One through Four are in this one, to be followed by Parts Five through
Seven (conclusion).
Thanks to all who enjoyed my previous story "Chained." This one is set
mostly at a college and concerns a curious and violent triangle -- a
stepfather, stepson, and cousin. Like "Chained," this has lots of S&M
(bondage, discipline, training, domination, spanking, pervy corruption,
watersports, cigars, etc.) and maybe even some love. I hope you like
reading it as much I liked writing it!
Please don't read if you're underage or troubled by "bad thoughts" about
your gay impulses. Crazy Christians, at least pretend to resist.
COPYRIGHT 2007 reserved to the author. Feel free to download for your
personal reading pleasure, but please refrain from any other uses or
republication in any format without contacting the author first.
Send email, appreciative or otherwise, to dogeboy2@yahoo.com. Thanks for
reading.
THE RESCUE
PART ONE
From as young an age as I can recall, I never got along with my
stepdad. His name is Carl. Aside from the fact he wasn't my natural father,
and he married my mom when I was five, he wasn't like the other dads in the
neighborhood. He didn't even like the term "Dad." He was "Father" and that
was that. I called him Dad or Carl in my mind. "Father" seemed too formal
for me to say, though with his formal ways it fit him better. Like
practically every other subject raised by me, my mother, or anybody he came
in contact with, there was no room here for argument. He could back up his
rules (and there were many) with action -- his big fist.
As I was growing up, hitting my teen years, people commented on how
much I looked like Carl, and it was true. Even though he wasn't my real
father, we did have the same body type, both tall and lean and strong,
"hard-riding cowboys in another time" one of the nosy neighbors said, with
fair hair and wide shoulders and a tapered waist. He looked like he worked
out, but he never did. His body was naturally strong, like mine.
Carl got along okay with my mom, because she never spoke up, just
wandered around the house all day, cooking and sewing and generally playing
the slave. She never knew how he chased pussy. Why would she, when he'd
come home, even after catting around, and spend half the night fucking her?
Her screams sounded through the house, and I always wondered if he had
special secret techniques of pleasure. I always thought she was lucky she
never worked. She would have had to stagger into her job, maybe bleeding.
Fucking was Carl's hobby. I knew because it became my hobby, too. I
had a secret competition going with him. I'd keep mental tabs on the number
of times I thought he was out cheating (the "I'll be late" phone calls were
a regular part of the week, along with my check-up call to his job), so
often it seemed like he had a second job. By the time I was sixteen, I
found out I had already fucked some of the same women he had. Not hard in
our small Ohio town.
It struck me growing up that Carl and I should have been friends
since we had so much in common. We shared that obsession with fucking. I
know underneath he thought it was the only really worthwhile thing in life,
and if things could have somehow been set right, we could have had a lot of
fun trading off girls. Sometimes I'd jack off thinking of him starting to
fuck one, then pulling out and letting me finish the job.
But for some reason, the older I got the more he seemed to resent
me. Sometimes I got the funny feeling that when he looked at me, he felt
like he was looking in a mirror and didn't like what he saw.
I guess I did give him some cause for grief. I never liked
studying, and always tried to fend off his questions about school. He
seemed overly concerned with my education, more even than the teachers, who
really didn't give a shit. My grades were okay and I was always promoted,
but not so much through my own efforts. The school seemed to carry me
along, like it almost didn't matter what I did, as long as I wasn't getting
into the obvious trouble some of my friends did -- jailed at sixteen for
stealing a car or smoking weed. They passed me right on into my senior
year, and that's when the big battles with Carl began.
He knew I wasn't studying much. He'd listen (my mother told me this
one night) for the "careless door-slamming" (her sad words) as I went out
the back door right after school, off to fuck either my regular girlfriend
Sandy or a chick I had lined up from school or the clubs or one of the
older women I had met when I was delivering groceries. Carl would wait
patiently for me to come back and he'd be sitting on my bed at one or two
o'clock in the morning for one of our little talks. It seemed more
important for him to harass me in the middle of the night than to get a
good night's sleep for his own job the next day. (I sometimes wondered if
he ever went to work, but I guess he did because we were never hurting for
money.) The conversations were always about the same.
"Son, it's time to talk."
"What do you want . . . Father?" (I couldn't resist being
sarcastic.)
"Just one thing. You to be honest with me."
"About what!" (I thought if I acted a little testy at the outset
he'd back off. I was wrong.)
"I want you to tell me where you went tonight."
"I went out with my friends." (Louder.)
"Didn't you have homework?"
"No, I did it all in Study Hall. Plus I don't have much homework
this year. I told you -- "
"You told me when you get to be a senior, they ease up on you. Is
that why you haven't gotten a single A or B this year?"
"I don't need to get a single A or a B."
"Say `Father.' You need good grades to get into college. They don't
take stupid people."
"I'm not stupid . . . Father." (I was about to get mad.)
"If I look at your grades and see how bad they are and I know
you're out night after night chasing pussy, then yes, I'd have to say
you're stupid."
For a lot of these conversations, he wouldn't look at me most of
the time, almost like he felt I didn't deserve to be seen.
"I don't know why it matters anyway since I don't plan to go to
college."
At this point Dad would stand up and walk toward me and put his
hand on the back of my neck and smile at me and kind of apply pressure, not
like he was going to actually strangle me, but maybe to prompt me to say
something more to his liking. The more of these talks we had, the less
inclined I was to cooperate. I felt nervous around him, though I hid it.
"I told you before I don't want to go to college. I can get a job
and get my own apartment."
Here he would smile some more and increase the pressure of his hand
on my neck and he would put his other hand (balled into a fist) too hard
against my cheek, like a gentle reminder he could smash my face. He was
still a few inches taller than me and though we were the same basic body
type, he had the edge because he was a lot meaner. I remembered how he had
relished beating me as a kid. He would slap me -- then smile.
"Who did you screw tonight, son?"
This question would begin the second part of our talk. I would kind
of whine to him that I hadn't been screwing anybody and I wanted to go to
bed and would he please let me get some sleep and why wasn't HE in bed?
"Don't you have to get up for work tomorrow?"
"I don't know how you've turned into such a little fuckhound," he
would say, looking around the room in disgust. "It must have been your
father's genes. Your mother would be sick if she knew how you really
are. And the neighbors. It's my job as your Father to discourage this
dangerous trend."
I couldn't tell him I knew all about his own statewide pussy hunt.
"I don't think it's so dangerous to fool around a little. I bet you
did it at your age."
"Let's not bring up that old saw," he'd say. "I'm broadminded, as
much as anybody. I admit I'm no saint either. Fact is, though, all this
catting around has interrupted your studies, and you'll never make anything
out of yourself unless you go to college. I don't want to hear any more of
your lip now, do you understand me? You're going to curtail these little
night trips, and you're going to college. Do you need proof I mean
business?"
Here he would increase his hurting me with his hands. His
expression (kind of bland and tense at the same time) wouldn't change, but
he would start squeezing my neck till my face got red and I would have to
agree to do what he wanted.
For the finale he would launch into a lurid description of "what I
know you've been doing, picking up these little whores on the street and
sticking your dick in them. Are you going to deny it? You're worse trash
than they are. They can't help themselves, but you can. You don't really
have to be that way, yet you insist on it. Laying on top of all these girls
and pumping it into them like an animal. Making them suck on you. I know
what you're up to, mister. It's disgusting."
Then he would give me a painful bear hug intended to remind me
again of his own strength and power, and how I had to yield to it. He would
make me say "Yes" and nod in agreement. He would smile when at last he saw
tears welling up in my eyes, but I always told myself mentally I was only
agreeing with his words, the tears were just a physical reaction, not a
sign of me weakening, and I had no intention of doing anything this smug
bastard wanted -- even if he broke my damn ribs.
Apparently, though, this was becoming a kind of obsession with him,
and he must have drilled it into my mother that I was "drifting into a
void" (his words) because she began talking to me about the same thing --
college -- but doing it in a tearful way, as if the thought of me going to
work after high school would break her heart. All I really wanted was to
work and make a decent wage and move out of my parents' house and catch up
on all the partying and fucking I had missed out on. I never really
understood why they were dead-set against me having my fun.
To placate my mom (though I knew Carl would interpret this as
another one of his endless victories), I agreed to go to college. I was
able to force one condition on my parents: I had to live at the college,
not at home. It took a few weeks of arguing, but they finally agreed. It
wasn't like they couldn't afford it -- Carl had plenty of money.
Now I could start considering the possibilities. Guys I knew who
were in college told me it was open season all the time, day or night, and
if I thought high school was a wall-to-wall fuckathon, wait till I became
an undergraduate. One guy told me you had to beat the pussy off with a
stick. This pretty much soothed my mind about continuing my education.
My mom mentioned to me that some cousin of hers had a son named
Greg who lived a couple of counties away who was going to be attending
Junior College just like me, and would I be interested in meeting him and
maybe rooming with him? She wanted this family connection, said we could
"watch out for one another." I agreed to this in passing and didn't think
much more about it, till one night when I came home around ten I saw a car
leaving our driveway with some young guy in it I didn't recognize.
"Who was that in that car?" I asked my mom.
"Just your cousin Greg. He dropped by to see you. I told you this
morning he'd be here. Don't you remember? You don't pay much attention,
James. He's going to check out the campus. He wanted to meet you, but he
waited for a couple of hours and we had a nice chat but you never came, so
he had to go on. Your father had a nice chat with him too. They were out in
the garage for the longest time. He's staying with a buddy of his in town."
"Is he that cousin I'm supposed to room with?"
She nodded.
"Where's Carl?" I suddenly felt there was some mild mystery going
on, and since he was always at the root of things, I wondered where he was.
"He's upstairs in his study."
"Did he ask to see me or anything?"
"No, he didn't mention a thing."
She went back to her eternal sewing, and I shrugged and went
upstairs. I wondered what this Greg was like, if he was going to be a
problem, maybe a snitch or a goody two-shoes. He left town the next day so
I didn't get a chance to meet him, so I figured, fuck it, I'll see him soon
enough.
PART TWO
September came and I said goodbye to my parents and drove off to
college. My mom was crying, which I thought was okay, kind of normal, and
Carl had his usual stupid sneer on his face, like he was annoyed with me
for some weird private reasons and I had better do well in my new life.
"Good riddance, fucker!" I said under my breath as I left the
house.
I looked at my papers and saw my room number, A121, and wandered
around campus for a few minutes asking people where it was. Once I found
it, I parked my car close so I could start unloading my trunk and
suitcases.
I didn't have any books to speak of, just a couple of Stephen King
novels so I wouldn't look like a total dope. The rest of the stuff was
clothes and a big box of fresh condoms.
When I unlocked the door to my new room, I saw it was already
occupied. A big stocky guy, my age but dark, with a bushy black moustache
and big arms, walked up to me and shook my hand and said in a deep voice,
"I'm Greg, cousin."
"Hi, I'm James, glad to know you."
"I came by your house to meet you last June, but you weren't
around."
"Yeah, I was busy."
"I can dig it," he said, and turned away to continue unpacking his
own things. "You mind if I take the inner room?"
"Actually, I kind of wanted that . . . for privacy, you know."
"Well, I've already got most of my stuff unpacked, and you know,
first come first served."
"You like your privacy too, I guess," I said. I was annoyed that he
refused to yield the room. He looked like a pretty robust guy, but I
couldn't believe he would need the privacy as much as I knew I would.
"You're right, James. Look, we'll try it this way for a while. If a
month goes by and you can't stand it, we'll trade. Agreed?"
"That sounds fine," I said, figuring he'd end up studying so much
he'd eventually give up the room for my fuck-plans.
I was unpacking some of my things when I noticed Greg was standing
nearby. He had lit up a cigar and was watching me. I didn't know why a
young guy would smoke cigars. I thought they were for old men, like
pipes. Greg looked like one of those burly guys who make it in sports and
then you wonder what they'll do after they go to pot. He stared kind of
hard at me and I felt a little nervous and realized I was holding that box
of condoms.
"You must be planning on doing a lot of screwing," he said, with a
kind of smirk.
"Just the usual amount," I said. I felt embarrassed all of a
sudden, even though I knew fucking was the most normal thing in the world
and nowadays there was every reason to have a healthy supply of condoms.
"Is screwing your hobby?" he asked, looking at me with a bland,
quiet expression like he was pretending not to be that interested. I
thought instantly of Carl.
"Everybody has hobbies. What's yours?"
"I play a lot of sports."
"I could tell. You look strong."
"Feel my arm," he said, blowing his smoke my way and then making a
muscle. "Don't be shy. It's okay. We're cousins."
I dutifully felt his muscle and told him it was "rock hard," then
turned away, thinking (hoping) this would be the end of the
conversation. But he kept standing there.
"You know, we always hear it's not good to be screwing all the
time. Us jocks. I had some buddies from South America that played soccer
and they used to say if you screw too much you'll be too weak to play your
best game."
"I don't believe that," I had to say.
"They used to tell us you only have so many orgasms, like everybody
gets an exact number for life, and if you use them all up too soon, there
won't be any left for later."
He laughed and flicked his ashes on the carpet.
"So are you telling me you've got something against fucking?"
"No, not at all," he said, taking a deep drag on his cigar, then
pulling off his shirt and for some reason sort of displaying his strong
body for me. He began rubbing his belly, then put out his cigar. He had big
nipples with black hairs curling around them. "I just think it's best to do
things in moderation, till you meet the right person."
He made a muscle again and looked at me.
I said, "And then?"
"Then, you go all the way -- no limits."
"That's an interesting theory, Greg. We'll talk more about it some
time."
"You're right, we will," he said, nodding and smiling at me, then
heading off to take a shower.
PART THREE
I got one call from my mom the first week of college. She wanted to
make sure I was settling in okay, and did I need anything, and would I
please call her and Father often and come to dinner at least a couple of
times a week. I agreed to eat with them often, but had no intention of
doing so even once.
I also got a call from my girlfriend Sandy, who wanted us to test
out my new bed that night. She said she needed it bad. While I was in the
process of agreeing with this and telling her how to get to my room, Greg
walked in and took the phone out of my hand and hung it up. Then he smiled.
"Why did you do that?" I said, not sure what was happening or what
my reaction should be.
"Don't you have studying to do?"
"What are you, my fucking keeper?" I stood up ready to fight. He
grabbed me in a bear hug and said, "Relax."
I tried to squirm out of his grasp but he was really quite a bit
stronger than me.
"Look, calm down, cuz," he said, still not letting me go. "There's
plenty of time for pussy. You need to get serious about your life."
When he did let me go, I was shaking. This was suddenly a repeat of
scenes with Carl, not something I was ready for in my new independent life.
"Sandy will be around a long time. You're just starting here. Don't
you want to make good?"
"Look, jerk!" I hoped raising my voice would stop his butting-in
before it got out of hand. "I don't need you or anybody trying to run my
life. I haven't gotten laid in three days. I'm fucking horny. You can't
understand that because all you care about is stupid sports. You're just
like my goddamn father."
"Hold on, James," he said, in a quieter voice. "I'm just trying to
suggest another way."
"Suggest? Right, by slamming down the phone in the middle of my
conversation! That's rude, dude."
"Look, I've got some whiskey in my closet. Why don't we have a
drink and talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about and I don't want to drink with
you. What are you to me?"
"You can get some ice down the hall and I've got some plastic
cups. We're going to room together for awhile, why not get to know each
other better?"
"I don't want to get us ice and I don't think I want to live with
you even for awhile. You're worse than fucking Carl."
"You'll be hard pressed to make a change now, when everybody's
settling in. And I met your stepfather. He's not so bad. He cares a lot
about you."
This was the key -- suddenly it was clear, and I had to say so.
"I get it. Sure. Carl talked to you. He put you up to this. He's
making you muscle on me about screwing around. Isn't that so?"
"I don't know what you mean, James."
Greg left the room and returned in a minute with some ice. He made
us each a drink, which, this time, I accepted. I didn't like the tension
that was happening and thought the whiskey might help.
"I can't believe it," I said, laughing. "He put you up to this. I
see it now. I don't even blame you. He's persuasive. Did he put his hand on
your neck and start squeezing? Or did he pay you?"
Greg just looked at me without saying anything, then removed his
shirt as he often did when I was around.
"You can say it, now that the cat's out of the bag. Carl and I have
a really weird relationship, or didn't he tell you? He can't stand the idea
of me having any sex!"
"Drink up, cuz," Greg said, staring at me and refilling my glass.
"He's jealous or something," I said, maybe the liquor loosening my
tongue. "I can see it in my mind. He gets this mental picture of me lying
on top of some girl, fingering her, getting it all wet, putting my dick in
. . . and sliding it in and out while she's moaning and groaning, I can see
all this driving him up the wall -- his little boy's out of control, doing
what feels good and the hell with duty!"
"You think Carl's jealous of you?"
"Think? I know he is! I don't know why though, not really. He's the
biggest fucker in three states! We fucked some of the same girls. One of
them thought I was him. That's how much alike we are. She said my dick even
reminded her of his."
I was starting to feel the liquor, and when Greg filled my glass
for the third time, I didn't protest. Screw it, I told myself.
"Drink up, cuz," he kept saying, eyeing me intently.
"I wanted to get laid, wanted Sandy to come over here." I was
starting to feel sorry for myself, the way I did sometimes when I was
getting drunk.
"What about me?" Greg said, putting his fist on my cheek in just
the way my father did. I wondered if all my male relatives had this thing
about me not screwing. "Was I supposed to leave while you were fucking
her?"
"Well, you could have, I'd do the same for you, if you had a girl
over here."
My thoughts were starting to fuzz up and I was thinking about ten
things at once. I stood up but felt dizzy, and then damn if Greg's hand
wasn't on my neck, and I can't remember the rest in detail, except I heard
the door being bolted shut, and I vaguely remember Greg rolling my pants
down, and laying me out in bed and me feeling like I might be sick if I
wasn't careful, and then the lights going out, and him standing over me
buck naked with a cigar in his mouth and a leather belt in one hand, and
his other hand holding his dick, which was fat and stuck straight out like
a snake from his dark hairy belly, and I felt a stinging sensation on my
ass as he was slapping it with his belt, before he climbed onto my bed and
held me tight on my stomach and put his dick way up in my ass and began to
grind against me like I was some girl.
PART FOUR
The next morning I woke up feeling really sore in my ass and I
reached back and was shocked to touch red welts on my butt and Greg was
nowhere to be seen. I staggered into the bathroom and tried to go but
couldn't, I was all jammed up inside. I tried to take a shower but the
water hurt and I got out of there fast. I made myself some coffee on my
hotplate and tried to think if I had any classes that day and what they
were and should I bother to go. I wanted to call Sandy, but I felt like
something had changed, and I didn't think I better yet. I thought of
calling my parents, but what would I say? That my cousin had beat the shit
out of me with a belt and then fucked me? For lack of anything better to
do, I started crying.
Greg walked in, big and dark and smiling, and said, "How do you
feel, cousin?"
I started to reply but couldn't bring myself to speak. What was
there to say?
He walked over to me and pulled off his shirt and started wiping my
eyes with it. Then he put his hand on my neck and squeezed it. He looked
into my eyes and said, "I like you, James. I want to do more with you."
Then he put his shirt back on and left.
The next few days were probably the most difficult of my life. I
would dial up different girls, then hang up the phone before I could say
anything. I ran into a tall black-haired girl named Patrice that I had
fucked a few times in high school. She had big round tits and a pretty
tight pussy, I recalled.
"I didn't know you were going here," she said, locking eyes with
me. "What dorm are you in?"
"I'm in A121, but I don't know if it's a good idea for you to come
by. My roommate's pretty weird. He's a real . . . prude. He might get
freaked out."
"Mama's boy? Why can't I see you when he's not around?"
"Maybe," I said. "I think he has football practice this afternoon."
"Two o'clock okay? I'll be out of class," she said.
"Cool, Patrice," I said, not feeling quite right about this but
unable to say no. Maybe that was the answer, I thought. Get Patrice in
there and fuck the hell out of her.
At two o'clock sharp Patrice walked in.
"You don't have any classes this afternoon?" she asked.
I had been in such a fog since that night, I had no idea. I didn't
care about classwork right now.
"No, none," I said, eyeing her up and down and remembering what a
good time I had with her. She was always upfront. She told me she liked me
because I had a "big fat dick" and "you know how to use it, unlike most
guys." I locked the door behind her.
I was beginning to feel relaxed. I started rubbing her nipples and
she responded by kissing me, deep and long. I closed my eyes and put my
hand up under her dress. It was warm and slick there already. I remembered
how good it felt before and my dick was already hard. I was rubbing her
pussy with my index finger when the door opened.
"Caught you!" a deep voice said, and before I could speak, Greg was
standing as close to me as I was to Patrice, and she looked up
wide-eyed. Now Greg's hand was also up her dress, and I thought "oh shit,
he wants a piece too" but instead he was pulling my hand out. Patrice
looked startled and quickly pulled away from both of us as if she were
trying to make sense of the scene. She then grinned sarcastically, smoothed
her dress down over her legs and said, "Later, boys," and was out the door
while I just stared.
"What are you DOING!" I screamed, turning on Greg.
He looked as angry as I felt, and he was still holding onto my hand
and seemed on the verge of saying something, yet didn't.
"What are you trying to do to me?" I said, in a quieter voice,
remembering how he whipped me and put me on my belly and climbed on top of
me.
"I don't think you should be doing that, not when you have studies
to pursue," he said, finally.
"Thanks, DAD!"
He put his arms around me in a bear hug and instead of fighting
him, I relaxed in his arms without quite understanding why. When I thought
more about it, I realized it was because I didn't want to arouse his
anger. It frightened me, what he had done the other night, and I was afraid
of a repeat.
"Good," he said, responding by loosening his grip. He walked over
and locked the door.
"This time, no liquor," he said, standing face to face with
me. "Lie down."
"I won't!" I yelled, pushing the air with my palms.
"Lie down," he said calmly.
"I won't let you beat me," I said, tears coming into my eyes.
"I won't this time, unless you ask me to." He began to undress, and
I could now see sober and clear the bad dream of the other night.
"See how strong I am," he said in a slow, sort of mesmerized
voice. He was naked now, touching his chest and belly and balls as he
talked. "Strong enough for you. Why did you go after that girl? What's she
really got that you need so bad?"
He reached for my hand and put it on his dick. I thought of
withdrawing it, but left it there and felt it stiffening in my
hand. Somehow I thought again of Carl, and how even he would never have
gone this far in disciplining me.
"I don't get any of this, Greg. What are you after?"
"You. Can't you tell?"
"But why?"
"I saw you and I wanted you. That's all there is to it."
"But why can't you go after girls? You're a big, good-looking
guy. I'm sure you'd be popular. I could introduce you to some girls
. . . if you want." I could feel the plea in my voice.
"Don't want girls, want you," he said, smiling and moving closer to
me, so his now hard dick was very close to my face.
"Suck it," he said. I pulled away. He pulled me back with firm
hands.
"I won't!" I said, suddenly miserable.
"You'll get used to it. You'll learn to beg me for it."
"Please Greg! I can't put my mouth on it, I can't! I like
girls. Don't make me!" I begged.
"Suck it, cuz," he said, with such finality that in spite of the
tears now running down my face and my feeling of hot confusion, I put my
lips on the head and didn't resist when he put both his hands on my head
and began to slowly thrust his dick in and out of my mouth. He increased
the tempo and I felt my throat gag repeatedly and then finally give up and
open to accommodate him.
My head was hurting and I was beginning to feel a little weak with
this sort of jackhammer routine, but I thought, "There's nothing I can do
to stop it. I didn't want him to beat me again, I can't go back home, and I
can't tell anybody what's happening."
"Lay on your back," he ordered, which I did, closing my eyes to put
the scene as far from my mind as possible, and he pulled my pants off and
sort of smacked my balls and dick a few times, then climbed on top of me
and lifted my legs high in the air then adjusted them carefully around his
shoulders. He put the head of his dick into my ass, brought his face close
to mine and whispered, "Give in, James, give in," and began kissing and
biting my neck the way I used to do a girl, and though I wasn't drunk this
time something in me made me yield, and I felt my body relax on its own, as
if I had no more personal choice in the matter, and when my body went limp,
he whispered, "Good, finally!" and he slid his dick deep into my ass, which
burned like it was on fire, and he began sucking my nipples and slowly
fucking me. I could feel his foreskin, long and loose, sliding up and down
on his dickhead as he slowly pumped my ass, like there were two dicks
inside me, taking turns. He rubbed his hands on my face and along my chest
and even though it felt like he was sIicing my ass open with a hot knife,
my arms almost instinctively went around him, a plea for him to stop or at
least be gentle, but also as if I wanted some of the pleasure he seemed to
be feeling. He owed me that much. I wrapped my legs around his back as he
shoved in and out of me and suddenly he put his mouth squarely on mine and
began deep-kissing me, and for an instant I thought of Sandy and Patrice
and a thousand other girls and how I used to love to stretch out on top of
them, and then I watched them fade one by one from my mind as I watched
Greg stretch out on top of me.
END OF PARTS 1-4.
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